Dear Rwanda,
Remember the times we watched the sun rise over the Kigali hills together? And remember the time we hung out with all those barber shop boys and their Jessica Alba obsession? And the Francophone door to door Congolese mask salesman? The markets, and the wrong-side of the car taxi drivers, and all the beautiful women… Oh, and Rwanda, remember the long walks on dusty roads and the way you always smell like firewood…
Rwanda, I know I’ve only known you for two weeks, and that we don’t even speak the same language, and I know you’re much more complicated than I can understand, but Rwanda? I think I love you.
Sincerely,
Laya
